Just drop it, Greg
by csfcsf
Summary: Has the nice DI's name ever sounded French to anyone else? Just a little weird, Brexit derivative piece I sort of had to come up with. Possibly temporary.


_A/N about A/Ns: An author (ab)using another's characters is possibly the least deserving of superimposing themselves over the relative importance of their stories. In other words, you come here for the story, not for me, and I wouldn't want it any other way._

_What is not necessarily understood in the reader-writer arrangement is how much real life events affect the ongoing narrative produced by the writer._

_Britain has had its Brexit only days ago. Some cheered, some cried; and some people (including me) feel their future is still to be determined._

_I'm affected in my own way, and I needed to find strength in (my) characters._

_I wasn't meant to post this one, but—_

_Hence the compromise solution, a temporary spin off. Probably just this one piece._

_-csf_

* * *

_**.**_

'Hi, mate', I greet within earshot of the absent-minded detective inspector who, for once, looks distracted, even subdued, surrounded by the crime scene he's in charge.

Around us all is a flurry of coordinated activity, a fast-paced routine investigation of a straightforward domestic fight that ended in a violent passion killing. Sherlock only insisted in coming to the crime scene – a dodgy 60's flat on the other side of the rail tracks – because he's been so despondent for lack of good cases that he's started hallucinating better mysteries to solve where there's only plain physical violence. On the cab on the way over Sherlock was so overboard with fantastical theories on how the simple "whack to the head with blunt object" killing was perpetrated that it made me glad Sherlock never turned to criminal consultant services, or to feather anonymous internet conspiracy theories.

The detective will keep himself suitably occupied for the next half-an-hour, his caged gifts of extrapolation and fruitful imagination providing him with a multitude of possible killing scenarios to cheer him up like he's been needing.

About enough time for me to figure out what is going on with Greg, hopefully.

'Inspector?' I call out more loudly. He's still miles away from me now, even if his body is tensely leaning against the nearest piece of solid furniture facing the room; a shelving unit full of scattered clutter. 'Greg?' I add in a harsh whisper between us.

The normally friendly inspector jumps at his given name. A real hitch in his breath accompanies the small but perceptible startle as his brown eyes – a bit too wide, a bit too quick – snap towards me. He relaxes as he recognises me immediately. His breathing rate remains elevated.

'You alright?' I ask, forcing back the medical analysis to give my friend a chance of privacy.

Still I let it run in the background. _Paler than usual but no increased colour on his cheeks that would indicate fever, sulked wells under his eyes as a sign of persistent bad sleep, tension on his jaw and lips indicating too much effort to control appearances, almost a Sherlock-grade theatrical twirl to the hand as he waves away my concern, dismissively. His eyes lingering half a second too long to check if I'm buying the act._

'Yeah, fine. Just caught me away with the fairies there, mate.'

'Wouldn't be a first', I play along.

He shrugs quickly, shaking tense muscles in a formal display of indifference. Too studied for my taste. I know by now something is up. I follow Greg's eyes but he's not really paying attention to the scene he's supervising, missing Donovan's quick brush of hair off her forehead with her evidence collection gloves still on. She'll easily send samples of her own hair and DNA for analysis at the Yard's lab. _Again_.

'I'm going to wilfully ignore that Sherlock has just licked a used teaspoon out of the dead man's coffee mug on the kitchen counter, shall I?' the inspector asks tiredly.

I snap my head towards the grey haired man and then to the infuriating consulting detective.

'Sherlock's got his methods, inspector', I say with all the seriousness I can muster, while waiting for a camaraderie smirk from Greg. It fails to come. He's distracted again.

No. Not distracted. _Worried_. About something or someone he's overlaying with his mind onto this boring, straightforward crime scene.

'I think we can leave your people and Sherlock to tire themselves out while we go grab a coffee, Greg, what do you say?'

As if noticing suddenly he's under increased scrutiny, Greg strains a smile – sterile, perfunctory, empty – and agrees with saccharine and fake enthusiasm.

All of a sudden even I feel disinclined to the coffee I offered, but I brave on, decided to get to the bottom of Greg's absent, tense behaviour.

_He's a good friend, Greg. I'm only returning the friendship._

_**.**_

'There's nothing wrong with me, John, I just wanted free coffee', the inspector underlines his joyous affirmation with a pretend toast, raising higher the paper cup.

His eyes still a bit haunted, a big calculating, wondering if the deception is working.

'Anytime', I retort. 'Shall we get another off the skinny genius?'

'Does he really need caffeine? I thought he ran on _murder_.' It's a lame, if pointed, joke but I offer the inspector a grin.

'How's the ex-wife?'

She still calls Greg, mostly to complain about the PE teacher.

'She's alright, I think.' He frowns, trying to place when he last spoke to her, so clearly this is not about the woman Greg has been half his life married to. Less than half, if you deduct the Yard's long hours. She did.

'The trombone playing neighbour?'

'His band has been touring the South. Blissful Silence.'

'I can imagine.'

'No, that's the name of his band. Blissful Silence. I take it it's ironic.'

I smirk. Greg might be not much himself today, but he's always good company; attentive, funny, supportive. That realisation fuels once more my intent to pry into the inspector's discomfort.

'You've got your head in the clouds today. Something bothering you?' Kamikaze style questioning. Sherlock must be rubbing off on me.

'No.'

'Liar.'

'Excuse me?'

I chuckle. 'You heard me', I dare him with a smirk. Watson's style.

Greg looks momentarily lost. 'Yeah, I guess you're right. Been trying not to overthink things, you know.' His eyes flicker to the coffee. 'But I guess you noticed. Hmm.' He tilts and straightens his head. 'It's really not something much...'

'Go on', I urge gently.

He glances at me, sipping his coffee, and behind his cup he seems to make a decision for he swallows the hot liquid and hastes the throw away question:

'You know I'm actually French, right?'

_**.**_

Two minutes, thirty seven seconds and we're sharing a park bench, still holding on to our paper cup coffees.

'_L'estrade_. The clue's in the name?' he starts, amused at my lasting surprise.

'You sound as British as I am.'

He shrugs. 'Family immigrated when I was a child. Honestly, seen more of London than France growing up. It didn't stop me joining the force as a Bobby on the beat. One day early on I had a chance to contribute on a murder investigation, and that was my way into the Scotland Yard. It's never made any difference, really. My spoken French is possibly more appalling than our boy Sherlock's. It never made that much of a difference until now.'

'Brexit', I recognise.

'Yeah', he recognises, tonelessly. He then proceeds to drown whatever else he may have thought to say in lukewarm coffee. I realise I've got a far too short window of opportunity to steer the rest of the conversation.

'What is it like for you?'

Immediately I recognise it was the wrong question as I feel him bristle. A sharp inhale, a tense posture of the fighting muscles, this was the question he was hoping to avoid.

Maybe some answers need to be aired, I think, drinking up some of my disappointing coffee.

'It's nothing much. Just... little things. Eventually they build up, but they are still little things.'

Preaching to himself.

'Like what?' I insist, bluntly.

'Heard one of my guys saying to another that after Brexit was done I'd _go_ _back_ _home_, he'd get my job.'

'Home?' I repeat, confused.

'He meant France. The way he said it, like I didn't belong here... like I'm an impostor, or something, they had to put up with so far.' Greg bravely chuckles bitterly. 'Yeah, one of my guys. I mean... I didn't make it a secret, but I didn't publicise it either. The French thing, I mean.'

'Sounds impressive to me', I assure him.

'Why?' He turns his head to face me straight on. There's uncalled for hurt in his eyes. 'How come suddenly I'm not _Greg_ anymore, but _the_ _French_ _guy_, that's what I'd like to know...' he mutters.

I realise he may not be addressing me directly.

'What else happened?' I ask, neutrally.

'There's this directive to get posters on the walls. The Home Office ones? You'd like them, John. They look like tea mugs, couldn't get a more run-of-the-mill British symbol to get our attention, could you?' he looks down on his coffee cup and shrugs silently. Who knows who pays attention to the beverage a tired detective inspector is having, or if he should have had tea instead.

Playing the game of trying to be more British than the British is absolutely insane. Unless you believe British people are nothing but walking talking stereotypes.

'Posters on the Yard's walls? I didn't see them.'

'Staff communal areas, John.'

'Oh. Sherlock would never tolerate communal areas... You know that's kind of insane, yeah?' I blurt out. 'That you'd let some punks make you feel less belonging to be here than they are.'

He hums, like one would to avoid engaging with a child.

Again, he's looking distracted, tired, _isolated_.

'Waiting on my "status", actually. So I have permission to stay.'

'Where would you go?' I ask without thinking.

He shrugs. 'Home', he replies sarcastically.

'Shit.'

He chuckles.

'I'm sure it won't come to that.'

He nods, vaguely.

Yeah, but it's the notion that it could, eventually, now or at some point in the future if the international politics turns ugly.

'So you can't get citizenship?'

'I can. Pay up, prove I can speak the lingo, answer questions on the British way of life and name the countries that are a part of the Commonwealth. Something like that.'

There's sadness interlaced in the inspector's words. He looks away to a fidgety grey squirrel racing the park.

'I thought I was doing good, being a part of _my home_, but—'

I sigh.

He adds, eerily: 'Maybe I should go.'

'What!' I react.

'Don't know where', he adds, blankly.

'Come on, mate, don't just give up. What about the Yard?'

He smirks. 'I'm not the only detective inspector out there, you know?'

'How about your team? They need you.'

'They'd be okay.'

'What about Sherlock?'

The inspector chuckles bitterly. 'Sherlock can't even make the effort to remember my name right.'

'It's an act and you know it. He likes to rile you up. It'll stop being funny when you stop reacting.'

'Yeah, I guess.'

'Detective Inspector Lestrade, we need you here.'

'Who's we? London?'

'Who cares about London? Sherlock and I need you here.'

'No, you don't!' he splutters angrily. 'I'm handy for backup and cases, and I'm breaking all the rules to help you guys but you'd soon find another sucker!'

'Without you, Sherlock would have been just another overdosed stiff in some seedy alleyway. You practically nurtured the rebellious young Sherlock back to clean health and gave him something to focus his racing mind.'

Greg assures me: 'The talent was already there. The things he deduced heavily strung up were far beyond my team's ability.'

'Yeah? Well, you'd have helped him even if he was a dimwit. You're a good guy, Greg.'

He shakes his head.

I roll my empty coffee cup between the palms of my hands. 'Four seventeen in the morning. I'd say it must have been a bit too early to get a call from me. But I couldn't wait. Sherlock had jumped off Bart's rooftop and I had been eyeing my gun for days... Did you really forget that?'

'No, John. It's alright, I'm glad you called.'

'We stayed up for hours having Korean take away and playing Finger Football out of an old board game you found in your garage.'

'We had a goal keeper figurine missing so one of us kept winning at a turn.'

'It was never about the stupid game.'

'No, it wasn't.'

I look him straight in the eye. 'Wanna play some more?'

He finally allows a smile that doesn't quite carry the previous tension. I vow to keep it close to surface from now on.

'What about Sherlock?' Greg asks.

A well known voice carries from behind us:

'What about me?'

We both turn to the familiar shape of the consulting detective in the imposing coat, coming towards us, walking on the perfectly kept patch of grass.

'Are you done with the crime scene?' I ask.

He scowls. 'It turned out as ordinary as it promised to be. You weren't missed, John', he graciously allows.

Yeah, well, Sherlock's not my only friend.

'Greg was just telling me—'

'He's French?' Sherlock completes easily.

Apparently it was easy to deduce.

'Yes. He's—'

'Feeling singled out?'

Greg admits: 'That's a good way of putting it.'

'That if he left the country to appease frustrated co-workers and strangers we'd move out along with him?'

'We would?'

'Absolutely', Sherlock vows. 'John, you wouldn't expect me to fend for myself alone in best impersonation of French?'

'I though your French impersonation was plain mockery.'

'It was. Still.'

I turn back to Greg. 'Let's make a pact. On going through this together. No matter where it takes you, mate. We're in this together.'

He lets go off some long held breath, finding strength in our unlikely trio.

'One for all—' I start, solemnly, _The Three Musketeers_ style. Greg starts to excessively roll his eyes, but I can see he's amused. '_Aww, just drop it, Greg!_

'—and all for one', Sherlock finishes himself.

_**.**_


End file.
